Thursday, June 23, 2016

Two Monsters

So, I will put stats on them later, but I was looking to see what people thought of the descriptive text.

They are the hollow men. Art By: Zdzislaw Beksinski

The
Shadows of the Scream

They are heralded
by sighs and shuffled footsteps, moving with the gate of a prisoner
traveling to a predetermined death. Their form is vague, a man or woman,
hunched shoulders and downturned face. Its edges are smoothed over
like a weathered statue, possessing an indication of clothes over an
emaciated and broken form. Colored gray, the hues of life had been
washed from this form long ago. Around the humanoid figure reality
boils in a haze of umber and vermilion. Sharply outlined shapes of
weapons, fists, and sneering faces flash from the miasma in
whip-crack succession. Yells of archetypal captors cascade out of the
bloodied cloud to cry out, “Halt, prisoner.”

As the Grey Folk are
the residue of uncaring and soulless bureaucracies, the Shadows of
the Scream are the residue of their actions. They are silhouettes,
outlines created on the surface of reality, shaped like victims. Each
victim, encapsulated by the violence visited upon them, fades in an
affirmation of their mortality, but the hollow space in the world
left by their passing, continues in the wake of bureaucratic
progress. These spaces are the spot in reality a victim took up as
violence crashed upon them. Shadows of the Scream are not the victims
themselves, they are merely islands of natural reality surrounded by
a wasteland created through continued violence. The human shapes are
not the monsters, they are merely the hollow core of a bruised
reality moved about by the true substance of their exterior. Found in
places where death was casual and ever present, they wander their
spawning ground, perpetuating the very acts of their creation.

Healers without mercy.

Demiurgus

A sphere, its
diameter as wide as an adult is tall, needle sharp spikes projecting
from every portion of its surface. Colored a dark purple near its
center, the hue fades to an almost pink-like lavender near the tips
of its spiked projections. Its material is transparent, the color
coming from within. At its center a fetal form bobs and shudders,
always facing the object of attention. A speed beyond natural, its
movement possessing a machine-like ability for economy. It doesn't
speak, its purpose clear as it approaches without hesitation.

They are the fixers,
the mechanics of reality, bringing balance to the wounds of discord
in reality. Whether natural, or created through unknown artifice, is
a matter of debate among theologians and philosophers. Demiurgus are
drawn to tears in reality gone septic, mending that which can be
saved, redacting the too far gone. Seen by thousands, recalled by
few, they ease the hurts of reality and unmake memories of those who
bore witness. Their minds are foreign, moved by purposes and
methodologies that are vague to the most observant. They are not
saviors, nor the healers of anything mortal, just as capable of
erasing an entire village from memory and reality as sealing ruptures
in space. Not creatures of order or chaos, they seek to bring reality
back to a level state, just as often undoing residue of bureaucratic
over-order as chaotic breaks. Complex actions and simple mindset,
Demiurgus pursue their goals without regard for collateral damage.
Communication is pointless, for the Demiurgus action is the only
meaning.